Interlude
by jujitsuelf
Summary: The story of one William Roque...


**Interlude**

Dislcaimer – all characters etc. belong to Andy Diggle, I'm just playing with them.

Thanks for Cougar'sCatnip for the beta, and for the title :)

Clay stopped by the door of the hotel's small bar on the way to his room. It was late, almost three in the morning, and there were very few people around. Probably a good thing, as his date for the evening had done a bit of a number on his shirt and it was now held closed by a single button. His pants were a bit the worse for wear too, she'd been over-enthusiastic in ripping them open. Only a few insomniac guests and the sleepy-looking clerk manning the desk saw the state he was in.

There was a man sitting at the worn piano in the corner of the bar. Clay frowned, surely he knew that figure. The broad back was ramrod-straight and the head was slightly bowed in concentration. Roque? Clay hesitated, should he go in and speak to his SIC or leave the man to his thoughts? He narrowed his eyes and walked into the bar.

Clay ensured he made enough noise to make Roque aware of his presence. He'd been decked by surprised soldiers more than once. The Captain didn't look up as Clay leaned against the side of the piano. Clay smiled slightly, enigmatic so and so.

Roque's hands were gently stroking the battered keys, big fingers surprisingly deft and skilful. Clay found himself slipping into the music for a minute. It was quietly hypnotic, mesmerising, and the Colonel really didn't want it to end. But end it did, as all good things must. Roque sat back from the keyboard and glanced up at Clay, as though daring him to say something flippant and derisive.

After a brief silence, during which he wondered what he actually should say, Clay settled for, "Didn't know you played. Mozart?" His SIC looked at him scornfully and said, "If it wasn't written between 1969 and 1989 you don't even consider it music do you?" Clay looked a little sheepish and Roque continued, "It's by a Italian guy named Einaudi." Clay nodded and said, "It's nice. Where did you learn to play so well?"

Roque looked at him thoughtfully for a second then replied, "My dad taught me." Clay's eyebrows rose; the little that Roque had revealed about his childhood hadn't seemed like the white picket fence, two point four kids, Saturday afternoon piano lesson type of gig.

Trying to remain tactful, Clay said, "He's due for parole in a couple of years isn't he?" Roque looked back at the piano and said softly, "He would've been. I got a phone call last month. He died. Lung cancer, old bastard smoked himself to death."

Clay drew a sharp breath. Roque hadn't said a word. He hadn't appeared any different, hadn't asked for any leave to deal with funeral stuff, hadn't used any of the regular leave they were both currently on to visit his mother. He'd just totally ignored the fact that his father had died, alone, in jail.

Clay always hated this type of conversation, he never knew what was really expected of him, especially as he was the senior officer, and this conversation was even worse. "I'm sorry" he said. Roque looked at him and said, almost defiantly, "What're you sorry for? It's not your fault. You didn't know him. Old fucker was a waste of good oxygen, and now he's a waste of the grief my mom's probably still feeling for him."

Clay ground his teeth together, not wanting to dig too deep into Roque's daddy issues, but at the same time, wanting to say something to ease the Captain's obvious discomfort.

"Your mom okay?" he finally asked.

Roque shrugged, "I guess. Spoke to her a week ago. Seems fine, busy sortin' out a funeral. I'd let the bastard rot."

As unwilling as he was to get too involved in this conversation, Clay asked, "He beat your mom up didn't he?" Roque nodded shortly. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen." Roque could be as sub-verbal as Cougar when he wanted.

Trying again, Clay asked, "How bad?"

Roque frowned and said harshly, "Nearly killed her. Doctors said she would've bled to death if I hadn't gotten her to hospital as fast as I did. My dad almost took my eye out with a beer bottle as I dragged mom out the door. That's where I got the scar, I know you always wanted to ask," he gave Clay a brief grin and continued, "anyway, I called the cops and they took him in, fool didn't even try to run. Landed himself a nice long jail term for domestic abuse, actual bodily harm and attempted murder."

Clay said nothing, but looked at the floor. Roque hadn't revealed even half this much in all the years they'd lived and worked together. He waited for the other man to continue, eventually Roque did.

"Mom didn't hate him like I did. I never got that. She said she had too many happy memories of him before, for her to hate him completely now." He shook his head, obviously still confused. "Women are crazy. Always did wonder what it was that made him so mad that night, mom never told me. Stupid bitch, she made me spend the last fifteen years wondering what the hell I did so wrong, to make my dad that angry."

The Colonel was starting to see where Roque's barely concealed anger and love of violence and blowing shit up, stemmed from. Roque was still speaking, apparently unable to stop now he'd started. "She used to make me go visit him in jail. Said I needed to know my dad. As if I wanted anything to do with that jerk. All I wanted was to be nothing like him. So, soon as I could, I enlisted and got away from both of 'em."

Almost without knowing it, Clay asked, "Was your dad proud that you enlisted?" He was angry with himself instantly, this was about Roque's daddy issues, not his own. Roque looked surprised, then said, "I never told him, told my mom she couldn't tell him either. I haven't seen him since I was eighteen. So, I don't know if he'd have been proud, doubt it. Why? Did your dad flip a shit?"

Clay looked away and muttered, "Um, yeah, not important." Roque gave him 'the look' that meant that he'd drop this topic for now, but would return to it at a later date. He cleared his throat and turned back to the piano. "So anyway, yeah, that's my sob story. Not important either. Shouldn't you be going to bed? That crazy bitch you took off with earlier will probably want another piece of you tomorrow, possibly literally, and your reactions are slow when you're sleep deprived."

A pained look spread across Clay's face. His guys were always so right about the women he dated. How come they could spot bat-shit crazy from a hundred paces and steer clear of it, and he just found it irresistible and blundered right on in. Life was hideously unfair to him.

Roque's hands were moving again, very gentle and careful with the aged piano keys, almost pulling the music from the depths of the instrument. The notes seemed to shimmer in the air briefly, then melted away, making Clay feel better for having heard them. The Colonel was clever enough to understand the music for what it was, a friendly dismissal.

He raised his hand to clap Roque on the shoulder, then let it drop. As much as he wanted to be a friend to the man, he was still his CO, and it was difficult to be in charge, and a buddy at the same time. He said quietly, "You can take as much compassionate leave as you need, you know. Say goodbye or whatever."

Roque's voice was hard as he said, "All the bastard ever gave me was the piano and a fuckin' scar that makes people scared of me. Why should I give him any of my time? Got better things to do."

Clay took a few steps away, then turned and said softly, "Don't stay here playing for the ghosts all night. They're a terrible audience and they won't appreciate it. Get some sleep, 'kay?"

Roque said nothing but gave a quick nod. Clay hesitated, then walked away swiftly. He heard Roque mutter to himself, "Idiot, what did you do that for? Now your fuckin' CO thinks you're just another dumb shit with father issues, probably get back and tell the nearest shrink to come be all chatty and friendly with you, find out what your deep-seated problems are. Just shut the fuck up. Moron."

Clay never missed a stride but he closed his eyes briefly. He'd wanted to offer Roque some sort of support, but apparently he'd just made things worse. Great.

When he got back to post, Clay searched Amazon for that Einaudi guy, and bought a CD of his greatest works. When things got stressful and he thought he might really have to slug a senior officer this time, Clay listened to that CD and relaxed slightly.

After the shambles that was the Port of L.A, Aisha found Clay clutching that same CD. His fingers were white from gripping it so hard. She had sense enough to see that she was intruding on some very private grief, and she stole away without a word. Clay stood holding the small disc for a long time, silently berating his former Captain and damning him to hell for his betrayal. He shook his head and quickly threw the CD in the trash, walking away before his resolve crumbled and he grabbed it back out again.

In the years that followed, whenever Clay heard piano music, his eyes would tighten, then he'd relax and smile faintly. He never told anyone what Roque had revealed that night, and he didn't fully understand why he kept it secret. It was as though he wanted the Roque who sat at that piano to be a different man, a different friend, from the one who'd sold him out without a second thought. Clay sometimes wondered what William Roque would have been like if his life hadn't been screwed up at the age of fifteen, before he even had the chance to learn how to fight back, or deal with it.

Until his dying day, Clay could never listen to Einaudi without feeling a knife twist in his gut. He knew exactly who that knife belonged to, and could appreciate the irony.

A/N -

This is what Roque's playing - .com/watch?v=Uffjii1hXzU&ob=av2n

If you've never listened to any piano music ever before, please give Einaudi a try. The man is a genius and well worth your time.

Thanks for reading, this just grabbed me and wouldn't let go till I wrote it. Very persistent man is our Roque! :)


End file.
